I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

I made what change I could in my appearance; and blithe was I to look in the glass and find the beggarman a thing of the past, and David Balfour come to life again.  And yet I was ashamed of the change too, and, above all, of the borrowed clothes.  When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught me on the stair, made me his compliments, and had me again into the cabinet.

“Sit ye down, Mr. David,” said he, “and now that you are looking a little more like yourself, let me see if I can find you any news.  You will be wondering, no doubt, about your father and your uncle?  To be sure it is a singular tale; and the explanation is one that I blush to have to offer you.  For,” says he, really with embarrassment, “the matter hinges on a love affair.”

“Truly,” said I, “I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle.”

“But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always old,” replied the lawyer, “and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly.  He had a fine, gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he went by upon a mettle horse.  I have seen it with these eyes, and I ingenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad myself and a plain man’s son; and in those days it was a case of Odi te, qui bellus es, Sabelle.”

“It sounds like a dream,” said I.

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer, “that is how it is with youth and age.  Nor was that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise great things in the future.  In 1715, what must he do but run away to join the rebels?  It was your father that pursued him, found him in a ditch, and brought him back multum gementem; to the mirth of the whole country.  However, majora canamus—­the two lads fell in love, and that with the same lady.  Mr. Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved, and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the victory; and when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a peacock.  The whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with his silly family standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from public-house to public-house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, Dick, and Harry.  Your father, Mr. David, was a kind gentleman; but he was weak, dolefully weak; took all this folly with a long countenance; and one day—­by your leave!—­resigned the lady.  She was no such fool, however; it’s from her you must inherit your excellent good sense; and she refused to be bandied from one to another.  Both got upon their knees to her; and the upshot of the matter for that while was that she showed both of them the door.  That was in August; dear me! the same year I came from college.  The scene must have been highly farcical.”

I thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my father had a hand in it.  “Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy,” said I.